


Game On

by SilviaKundera



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2003-07-03
Updated: 2003-07-03
Packaged: 2017-10-12 20:31:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/128746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SilviaKundera/pseuds/SilviaKundera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"You'll be late getting back." Marcus presses into the curve of Oliver's arm with his thumb, and Oliver peers down to examine it. "Thirty points from Gryffindor, and you know I like beating you on the greens."<br/>"You don't beat us anymore, " Oliver says, and smiles.</i><br/>[Written after Book 4]</p>
            </blockquote>





	Game On

**Conversation One (Marcus)**

Marcus sips at his glass of lemonade while Oliver sips on butterbeer, and Marcus thinks maybe that's a whisper of them, saying all that needs to be said.

His mouth is tart and his tongue stings.

Oliver sits on a slim booth beside slim boys, in a row of golden shoulders dipping out from the collars of skewed robes. Gryffindor robes never fit quite right; not like his.

"What, you want something?" the small freckled thing says, that friend of Potter's, and Malfoy sneers back, and Marcus says nothing. He watches.

"Maybe for you to give those robes a bath, " Malfoy says, and sniffs haughtily, just like his mother - aristocrat upturned nose.

Marcus saw her once, Lucius' blond slim-hipped wife, clutching at the bookcase until her knuckles turned white. Marcus's father was fucking her, and it was summer so Marcus was home, and had come down for something from the pantry; he couldn't remember for what, suddenly, and he can't remember now. She had very small breasts and a shiver in her spine.

"Looks like a _troll_ had them first," Malfoy says, and Marcus remembers that she never made a sound.

Oliver scoots out of his slot, pushing his mug to the center of the table, and Marcus' sip is too deep - makes his forehead spring up damp and the backs of his eyes prickle. They make the lemonade here with shaving of peel, and it's more than sour, more like sharp.

The boys slide in to cover Oliver's tracks - sun warmed water scooped from the ocean, ripples settling and falling still. Pucey will stretch out his legs when Marcus leaves, and not give an inch.

Marcus rises.

 

Legs skitter back from his steps and he bares his teeth at them, pushing through the pub door and plodding quickly across cobblestones. He can hear the crunch of footsteps to his right, and knows Oliver turned the corner.

It's an alley, and maybe Oliver should know better, but then it's not quite dusk yet and Oliver is not quite bright.

Pretty, though.

 

Marcus catches his elbow, and it's as if Oliver is caught in his own head, because he blinks a couple times before frowning. It's almost as if he's surprised.

"You'll be late getting back." Marcus presses into the curve of Oliver's arm with his thumb, and Oliver peers down to examine it. "Thirty points from Gryffindor, and you know I like beating you on the greens."

"You don't beat us anymore, " Oliver says, and smiles.

His breath smells like honey and spices, and his skin is warm beneath the cloth, and Marcus thinks that when they kill his seeker Oliver won't smile so much, and that's a pity. It is.

Marcus plays rough but he usually plays fair.

He would let Oliver leave, even, if Oliver tried.

Oliver watches Marcus' mouth as he tells him to shut up, and Oliver breathes behind Marcus' fingers, and Oliver quakes in the center of his back as Marcus presses up against it, and Oliver's knees wobble but hold. He's never hidden anything very well.

"Try," Marcus murmurs into side of his throat, and bites at it, and Oliver stills. Oliver waits instead, and his shoulders taste like morning. It's morning all around them, dew gathering on their necks, as the sky falls into black.

They'll be late, both of them.

There's a thick bumping in Marcus' veins, and it makes his fingers twitch and his hips push forward until his stomach sizzles. He's fumbling beneath the robes for Oliver's belt buckle, and fucking up against rough cloth, and it's too much trouble, maybe, to do anything more, so he grinds the base of his palm down against the hard press of Oliver's cock, until nothing is perfect or good or clean; just sticky and wet.

 _There_ , he thinks, and then says it.

And Oliver says nothing, because he's beautiful and borrowed.

And she never made a sound, not when her head craned back, against his father's fine gold watch, not when she met Marcus's eyes.

 

 **Conversation Two (Oliver)**

"Are you in or are you out, " Oliver says, beneath his breath and twisted under this tongue, because that is how Oliver thinks.

He sees the sweeping arc of the Quaffle hurling towards the stretch of his arm, and it will beat him or it won't, and it will score or he will block, and there aren't two ways about it.

Oliver doesn't deal in halves, and he reaches before he thinks.

 

He wanted and it came out of nowhere, but Oliver is used to that and opens his mouth and slides down to his knees. His hands are shaking. The stone floor is cold, like nobody has ever been here, but Harry's been everywhere - all the kids say so - and they only thunder and rumble and tell you not to come because they know you will.

Marcus knows, maybe, and Marcus isn't stopping him.

 

In Out In Out In bubbles in his blood and loops in his head, and he waits poised for movement with his palms flat upon Marcus' thighs, palms thwapping and fluttering because he will win or he will lose, and he's not yet sure which will be which.

Tick tock, tick tock.

Marcus shifts his weight and shuffles back a step, and Oliver follows, and Marcus lets him, and that's as in as it gets. Oliver breathes in chunks of stale, forbidden floor air, cold and thick, and pushes fabric up to Marcus' stomach and Marcus pins it there. He's slow about it.

Oliver is quick but clumsy, and he whispers something that he doesn't think and can't hear, fingernails scraping against grass stained robes, stained and sour like his own. The zipper's under there, and slippery in Oliver's grip. It stutters down, and only then does he remember that he never does anything right the first time, never, but it's too late and there's the thick silken warmth nudging at his lips and the sound of near panicked breath clouding above his ears.

And if he 'takes one to the head', at least he can laugh about it later.

Cock rubbing over his tongue, and that sounds so odd echoing in his mind, like something that happens to somebody else, except it's happening to him and he finds that he likes it. He's in, he's in, he was in when he caught Marcus' wrist and said, "Hey, do you want-" and didn't finish but didn't have to. He knows why they're not supposed to be up here.

He's the captain, right, and it's his job to know what his boys do. Those boys.

Us boys, Oliver thinks, and shivers as fingers crook around the back of his head.

"You think you're so-" Marcus mutters and bites it off, a low hollow sound in his chest that Oliver can feel, and he wonders what he is and what he is not - maybe Marcus knows, and won't tell him, and isn't that just like him - because there are no grays for Oliver, so he's something.

"You're, yeah," Marcus says, kind of choked, so maybe Marcus agrees. He's pushing the soft head of his cock over the roof of Oliver's mouth, and it's as if Oliver's skin is peeling back, folding over itself, goosebump by overturned goosebump.

There's a galloping heartbeat tapping over his tongue, stretching his mouth, echoing the thump in Oliver's chest. The beat goes fuzzy as his brain goes fuzzy - warm and languid waves crashing inside of his head. Thump, thump, and his lungs are shuddering, begging, but his mouth is so open and nice, and there's a brushing against the back of his throat that makes the waves smooth out silk and hotter, and he's not ready to draw back just yet.

He breathes little pulls through his nose and his fingers scrabble at the floor, like he can dig up oxygen from the cracks. He can't.

He can feel the lights flicker out behind his eyes, diced with red.

His lungs hitch and his heart stammers and the sharp taste settling deep on the back of his tongue grows thick. present. there. His throat closes around it, and then his mouth is empty, and then Marcus is just standing above him, hand still in Oliver's hair.

Short, bitten down fingernails scratch at Oliver's scalp and he thinks he can hear them. It sounds like fall, wind, and leaves. He's two touches from touch and go, and Marcus scratches as Oliver lays a hand down to press roughly against the juddering, needy pulse of his own cock, and it's just that easy. It's like clockwork.

Marcus' hand glides from back to front, to cup over his mouth, and it stays after Oliver's rough grunt is gone and the blood that was rushing has spread out and settled smoothly in his veins. Marcus' hand presses tight against Oliver's lips, and his neck is turned towards a window Oliver hadn't noticed.

Pieces of brooms and boys skitter by the opening, game robes flapping in the wind.

"You could never beat me," Marcus says, and tucks his hands in his pockets.

Oliver watches the thick crane of Marcus' neck, dusk playing against his cheekbones. "We have."

Marcus laughs. "Not one on one," he says, and closes the door behind him.


End file.
